Lemon Scented
by John Locke
Summary: Growing collection of oneshots and drabbles concerning Cain Fury and Jean Havoc. Fluff and angst to be expected, as only this yaoi pairing can mix both emotions together so well.
1. Lemon Scented

_Author's Note: Inspired by Spade44's own drabbles, which are completely beautiful._

**Lemon Scented**

It was kind of fitting that his hair smelled of lemons, Cain Fury thought as he rolled over onto his side.

The scent matched his hair color; a bright vibrant tone that shone in just the right light. Seemed a tad bit predictable at best that something matched, not like that ever happened.

Though Cain couldn't see the other occupant of his bed as it was still dark inside the room, he had to rely on previous sightings of said hair to compare the scent to color.

That idea in itself was ridiculous at this hour of the morning, he himself, Cain, had no idea why he was thinking such thoughts.

Turning over again his nose was almost immediately pushed back into the lemon scented hair, and he figured out why in fact he was thinking such absurdities at nearly three in the morning while he should be asleep.

For once he could smell something other than cigarette smoke on Jean Havoc.


	2. Defining Oxymorons

_Author's Note: Yes, this is far too long to be a drabble of any sort. I fail at life. xD Anyhow, ZOMFG EDWARD I'm confused at what you mean by wanting to 'pimp' me. o.o IM me/email me for clarification. But also, I happen to love this particular piece... well the first part a t least. The rest is rather patheically despicable..._

**Defining Oxymorons**

Each last of his nerve endings were slowly becoming dulled by the monotony of the chaos that consumed his life. Though that was a complete oxymoron the more Cain Fury thought about it. Monotonous chaos seemed to be defining everything in his life, making everything seem to be an oxymoron; work, home, and love even.

Work wasn't so much as work but a time where his mind strayed to points which they didn't belong. Daydreaming whilst he was supposedly fixing all of the items that were 'accidentally' broken by _him_. Though fixing mechanical items never was work as he enjoyed it, until Colonel Mustang came into the equation that was (he seemed to be utterly useless when it came to repairs, he on countless occasions attempted to fix his own broken items. But ended just breaking them further making more work for him). More than once he dropped his screwdriver onto his foot whenever his inattentiveness was brought to his 'attention'. Not only was his attention brought back to his work, but also to what he _was_ paying attention to. The images in his head. Of course, he would never let any of his surrounding military personnel know what exactly he was thinking about no matter how adamantly they asked; or threatened. This cycle of going to work, and dreaming during the day (instead of during the nights which he spent lying awake not dreaming), was becoming quite disruptive.

Defining him now as the dream worker,his colleagues nowhad another reason tomockhim. Bringing that to the top of the oxymoron list. Dreams never worked out.

His home, evidently was not a home. It was rather just a place, a roof, where he slept and kept his belongings. Though he owned not much more than his clothing and a few pieces of furniture scattered in disarray. A dwelling where he should have made it his own, but did not because he spent as little time there as he could. There was no way he could even call it a home as his heart belonged somewhere else, with someone else. And home was where the heart was supposedly as he was taught at a young age by his mother and father. The emptiness kept him from wanting to be there. With nothing to come home to besides a cold empty bed, darkness, and the nauseating sense of loneliness he could never think twice about calling his house a simple house. He supposed, though it could have been better if his Land Lord had allowed pets. A pet would have made it the house at least worth coming home to, and not so pathetic.

Second on the list was his definition of his 'home', full of emptiness.

Love, Cain had to say was not the worst part of his chaotic monotonous life. He was in love, but it could never be complete as he kept it secret. In the depth of his soul he kept it hidden. For love was something not readily acceptable to him, as he was shown little love other than siblings and parents. Interest was never shown by anybody in him, and he always knew that it took mutuality to have a relationship. His fanciful love was purely lust driven, he wanted to think. For if it were simply lust, he could just move on. It would always be the same: whomever he showed any interest in always knew little or nothing about him because he kept everything to himself. It was not so much that he was shy, but more like experienced. One bad sharing of his most inner thoughts wrought only pain and relentless tears. He had learned to suppress those thoughts after a few years. But now, it was back. Those same feelings of love, but for someone new. Someone he knew well, but they had no idea. _He_ had no idea. That in itself brought out the chaos in the monotony, the thoughts of being in love with a fellow man shocked the young man.

Thusly bringing his short list to a close with number three concerning love, wishful thinking. His wishes were never granted no matter how hard he wished, or how many times the wishes were repeated. And wishes were rarely logical not much unlike love.

---

Sighing, Cain placed his pen down upon the simple list he had constructed exposing the words work, home, and love in striking red ink. The image of the words were impressed on his eye lids as he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes trying to just stop thinking altogether. For a minute, it worked. Just sitting and breathing with his eyes closed got his mind to stop dwelling in his soul. But as everything was bound to do his mind was once again thrown back into chaos, monotonous thoughts never leaving his cerebrum.

Taking the pen back in his hand he hastily scribbled the words 'dream worker' next to work; full of emptiness next to home; and wishful thinking next to love. And in a brief moment of bitter creativity he tied those thoughts and words into a simple sentence.

A dream(ing) worker is full of emptiness without wishful thinking.

As Mustang called out Cain's name in frustration, he abandoned his paper carelessly to check out what kind of trouble Mustang had wandered into now. Not thinking that a certain someone, much less anyone, would bother seeking him out and end up reading his skewed thoughts.

---

He had done it again, folded to Mustang's persistent orders to fix all that was even marginally wrong within the Eastern Head Quarters, sacrificing that special time in which he went to his house to lay in the darkness and sleep. It had been exhausting, and he had no other expectations for the night other than being able to sleep in his cold bed.

But he found that he couldn't even go to bed as he saw a light on in his front window from his position in the street. A wave of panic rushed through him as he ran towards his front door and even found it unlocked. Pushing the door with his shoulder as he turned the knob Cain looked frantically through his spectacles around the room. What he saw completely shocked him.

Jean Havoc, was sitting on his coffee table. His usual cigarette sitting comfortably between his smiling lips, though unlit. It moved carefully as he spoke, "Full of emptiness eh?"

---

It was then Cain realized that he was wrong about the monotonous chaos being the definition of his current lifestyle. It was more like peaceful havoc. He no longer had to dream at work, as he could comfortably dream at _home_. Home, where he no longer felt was full of emptiness as two bodies rather than one occupied the space. And his bed was no longer cold with another body sharing it. His thoughts even were no longer wishful as his wish had been granted. It had taken his life so long to right itself because he had been so withdrawn that he could not see that his dreams, emptiness, and wishes were shared by another. _His_ sweet Havoc.


	3. Sick and Tired: Part One

_Author's Note: I love my reviewers... and I had to stop and make this in two parts because I am too sad to continue. My bird died and it is more than depressing me._

**Sick and Tired: Part One**

"One would think you didn't have it in you. Such a reserved and honest man," Roy Mustang said lowly so only Cain Fury could hear him. He, Roy, was standing in front of Cain's desk where the younger man was seated fixing a radio that had been broken for the fifth time that month. Mustang smirked mockingly, but was surprised when Cain scowled and finally looked up at his superior officer.

"_That's it, I'm done!_ _I refuse to put up with this shit anymore_," Cain Fury's voice rang out viciously throughout the fourth floor of Eastern Head Quarters. He promptly stood up from his chair, threw down his screwdriver violently so it bounced off of the surface of the desk and tumbled to the floor unceremoniously, and walked away from the desk.

Every pair of eyes were on him, not excluding Colonel Roy Mustang who was left at the Sergeant Major's desk, visibly flabbergasted. The young man was completely pissed off, if his anger could even be reduced to such a word. His dark eyes were almost glowing with indignation, and his cheeks were scarlet with suppressed words.

He was headed straight to the exit, ready to leave and never set foot near any of these people again. Ever. And it only angered him further when Jean Havoc and Haymens Breda tried to stop him from leaving. Giving them each a glare that showed only half of his strife, and pushed with all his strength to get between them to continue down the hallway. Paying no attention to either's pleas to stop and calm down.

It took all of his reserve though to defy Riza Hawkeye who dared to pull her gun on him as he had his fingers wrapped around the door handle. A barking laugh of disgust tore from Cain's lips, sounding unnatural coming from the usually reserved man.

"Nice way to tell me to stay. Just what makes me want to leave more, you're just a fucking bully Riza. Go ahead and shoot me, see if I care anymore." Standing with a new found courage he stared blankly at Riza's surprised face, and her hand gun pointed straight at him. When she didn't shoot him he just laughed bitterly and opened the door. It was shut again momentarily, Cain on the other side.

There was a tense silence as everybody watched each other stand the way they had been when Cain left. A few seconds of silence were enough, Roy Mustang shook his head before telling everybody to get back to work.

Though it was hard to concentrate on paperwork with tears in your eyes, Jean found out.

---

"Dammit!" Cain swore as he kicked out at North wall of the building he had just stormed out of. He was more than likely going to be Dishonorably Discharged, or something to the likes. But there was only so much abuse one man could take from his colleagues; his supposed friends.

Mustang had just been the 'straw that broke the camel's back'. The way he so smugly teased him about his secret. How Mustang even knew was beyond his comprehension, but the last remark hidden beneath a seemingly innocent remark was enough to make him want to hurt somebody.

That day itself, Riza had forced more work on him than anybody else because he was the only dependable one. The only worker under Mustang's command that wouldn't give her enough shit to give her a reason to seek out some other weakling. That's what she saw him as, and he knew it. She took full advantage of his willingness to make everybody around him happier, no matter the cost. Even of his dignity and pride. Soon she was just making him do all the things that had been undone, he had been the dumpster where everybody threw their unwanted trash. The man who would do the most absurd things after a few minutes of careful persuasion. "More like manipulation," he added to his own internal monologue. Riza pulled her gun or hinted towards it every time Cain's lips had started to form the word no, or an answer similar to that. She bullied him into not thinking of how late he got home each night, and how alone he was when he continued to work when everybody left to have a life outside of work. He was essentially trained as much as Black Hayate was.

Breda and Havoc were another touchy subject. The pair seemed to thrive in their mocking games, making him want to just crawl under his desk and sink into abatements sometimes. And it wasn't even the usual teasing either, Havoc seemed to revel in the physical pain he caused the younger man sometimes. A quick punch to the shoulder, or a shove 'playfully' into the wall. Some nights he would come home, undress to shower and discover another bruise. It wasn't even the visible bruises that hurt, it was the tears they made him shed when he sat alone in the dark. There wasn't a night where his pillow had been dry as far as he could remember. It affected him more than he could admit, and that in itself scared him because he definitely should not be having any other feeling but malice towards Havoc. But that wasn't the case. It would be so much easier just to fucking hate the man. But no, he couldn't even do that. Breda, though. He could hate the large man with every fiber of his being deep inside his soul, but would never show it.

He never showed anything, to anybody in the office. Other than a mask of trepidation and a somewhat reserved lifestyle. Letting anybody know of his extreme feelings of inadequacy that they spawned would only give them a soft white under-belly to rip at. Another weak point to point out and make jabs at. Though they did quite a job at poking holes in his accepting demeanor and calmness. But he held himself together for appearance sake, and broke apart at home.

He just couldn't take it anymore. He had to let them know what horrible people they were, what they were driving him to: a slowly painful death. Once Cain Fury had enjoyed work, meeting his new colleagues, his superiors. But now, he wanted nothing more to end their spiteful glances, making him out to be the bearer of their own troubles and anger. He was a shell of what he once was, and it had to end, their torture that was. And so he walked out, never to come back. He would never be able to look at them again without wanting to cause them as much physical pain as they caused him mental and emotional pain. With tears streaking down his face he started to walk the slow walk home, where he could just rest and decide what to do with the rest of his life tomorrow.

In his unhurried haste he did not notice that one of his former colleagues was following him in order to talk to him.

---

He slammed the door behind him, and sank to the floor sobbing silently. It was all he knew how to do now, cry. It didn't even feel good anymore, it only made his head ache, eyes swollen and red, and nose run like there was no tomorrow. But what else could a broken man do? Minutes passed before he stood up shakily and moved to his kitchen in order to retrieve a paper towel to wipe his eyes with. Finished with the paper towel, he just chucked it in the general direction of the trash and watched it silently hit the floor. That was what he felt like, a used piece of paper towel. Only good for one thing and tossed aside without another care. Used, just used altogether. Nobody really cared about his feelings, and it showed._ It showed_.

Intent on going to bury himself in his duvet cover and pillows, Cain wasn't fully surprised to hear a knock at the door. Glancing at his wrist watch through reddened eyes it was about time the post had arrived anyways. He shuffled slowly towards the door just to retrieve the post, and throw it on the table without a second thought. An agonized sigh parted his lips as the door swung open to reveal Jean Havoc. Cain raised his eyebrows in shock, but then knit them together in anger and slammed the door. "_Fuck_, what the fuck do you want now?" He said loudly, though to himself. He did not intend for Havoc to stand outside his door and continue to listen to his inane ramblings. "I can't deal with this…"

And for the second time that day, let alone hour, Cain sunk to the floor with his back pressed against the door; tears streaming down his face.

---


End file.
